


Mary Jane

by terma_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-01
Updated: 2002-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:54:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26536126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atTER/MAand was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address onthe TER/MA collection profile.
Relationships: Alex Krycek/Fox Mulder
Collections: TER/MA





	Mary Jane

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).

  
**Mary Jane  
by Mona Ramsey**

  
He stared at the keys in his hand, nothing in his thoughts associating them with opening the door to his apartment. He'd been standing there for five, maybe ten minutes, just staring, going over and over and over the events of the day behind him like bad home-movies replaying in his mind. It had really been a crappy day. 

He'd yelled at Scully, unforgivably harsh stupid things coming out of his mouth, had words with Skinner at the hospital that couldn't be taken back, and generally acted like an ass. He'd call Scully in a couple of hours to let her forgive him; in the morning he'd face the A.D. and get his dressing-down for his unprofessional behavior, and then they'd go on again, until the next time. It was the way it happened.

In between these things happening, he needed these few hours to just sit and stew; precious, much-needed pity time, penciled in with unfailing accuracy to the life of an FBI agent. Requisitioned along with weapons and travel expenses, documented every month on a report and filed away with the number of pencils he'd thrown at the ceiling. The X-Files had extra allowances of all of it, just on principle. 

Sometimes, it seemed that _nothing_ went right. 

* * *

Finally, he keyed the lock and pushed at the door with a non-committal shoulder, unbuttoning his coat and slinging it off in the general direction of the coat rack. It was unseasonably cold—although October in Washington the middle of the night was hardly _ever_ unseasonably warm— and he'd been freezing his ass off in the middle of a field for the past three hours. At least he'd worn his overcoat; Scully was stuck in a skirt and heels. He'd offered her his suit jacket and was warned off with an eyebrow raise to rival anything known on 'Star Trek'. That was the last time they'd spoken civilly that night. 

They both knew it was a wild goose chase from a few minutes after they'd arrived, but you couldn't just show up and then _leave_ ; reports had to be filed, no matter how useless or pointless a waste of ink and paper and hours. Skinner showing up had been the last straw; every time he was willing to just give in and believe his boss was on the side of right, some stupid little thing would happen and they'd be on their way to yet another stand-off at the end of a gun barrel. He half-wished for a time when Skinner would just get fed up and shoot him, already. Scully did it often enough; it took the edge off of their relationship. 

There were too damn many edges everywhere; too many rough corners and not enough smooth in-between; too many 'aliens' that led to more and more _nothing_ ; too many loose ends and not a single damn answer that lasted more than a few minutes before disappearing again. Didn't anyone know that he just wanted to _understand_? Truth was a buzzword that didn't have any meaning anymore. Justice was food for someone else's fight. 

He hung up his coat and was on his way to the couch when he realized at last that he wasn't alone; eyes glittered at him from the corner of the room, the light from the fish tank glinting dully off of familiar scuffed leather. He thought of nothing but drawing his gun and pointing it right at the bastard's face: finally, unbelievably, for what might have been the first time in his _life_ , on the offensive. "Don't move."

"Not a problem." The deep voice scratched a little, an edge of a cold, perhaps—or maybe it always sounded like that: rough, slightly 'oily', slightly hesitant. He hadn't moved. "Could I get a little help, here?" 

"What?" Unwilling to put down the gun, he struck the light-switch with his elbow, then almost dropped his gun anyway. 

It _was_ Alex Krycek, as he'd suspected. He'd come home often enough to find his—nemesis? shadow? father's killer? —in his apartment that it wasn't even enough to register a surprise anymore. But to find him like _this_ , well that was something different. 

He was sitting in the chair beside his desk, legs tied to opposite legs of the chair, arms drawn behind him, duct tape wrapped around his chest and torso. His eyes were covered, but his mouth was free. His face was bruised, and he looked like he'd been dragged through several of the brighter spots of hell. 

Mulder didn't even suppress the chuckle that rose to his throat. "And I didn't get _you_ anything, Krycek." 

He walked over where the man was sitting, his sense of decency warring with his need to just kick the crap out of Krycek. But whoever had 'delivered' him had obviously taken the opportunity to do just that already, and there was nothing in him that needed to beat the guy up when he was this far down. 

He'd wait until he was back on his feet to do that. 

He pulled the blindfold off of Alex's face, revealing a matching set of black eyes. The skin around his lower jaw was swelling up, his bottom lip was split, and the skin that wasn't bruised looked pale enough to have been out of sunlight for months. He'd put up a fight against whoever had delivered him, that was for sure. "You kill someone's father and forget to run?" 

"I didn't kill your father, Mulder," Alex said, but there was no passion in his voice. It was all rote—whatever answers he had to give, whatever questions Mulder would ask him—all part of the game that they played. 

"I thought you said you'd be back sooner." Mulder leaned over and kissed him, pushing his tongue in, opening up Alex's mouth until he could feel the warmth of the cut splitting again, a trickle of blood dripping down his chin. He licked at that blood with his tongue, nipping and nibbling at Alex's lower lip for emphasis, before drawing away. 

"Bastard," Alex said, when he was released, but the glitter in his eyes wasn't from pain or fury, nor was the flush in his cheeks. "Believe me, I never planned on returning." 

"It's been a long while, Krycek, and you didn't even miss me? I'm hurt." Mulder tucked the gun back into its holster, then reached around to tug at the tape that secured Alex to the chair. Their bodies pressed together, and he could feel the heat rising from Krycek's skin. 

"One of these days you're going to surprise everyone and shoot me, Mulder, mark my words." He rubbed one chafed wrist and kneeled down to untie his legs. 

"I've had enough opportunity already, and I haven't done it. What makes you so sure?" 

"You always sublimate your feelings, Mulder—you pour out all of your energy on whatever you're doing at the time, but you never get anything _done_. The X-Files, what is that? A way to make your father proud of you. The search for your sister—if you ever actually _find_ her, then maybe you can go back and get the love your parents never gave you. I haven't figured out what getting fucked gives you, yet - but I will." 

It wasn't baiting enough to be hurtful, and probably too truthful to be processed. "Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much, Dr. Freud?" 

Alex was untied now, and he pushed back on Mulder, knocking him over on the floor and straddling him, sliding his belt through the loops and rolling it up neatly. "Condoms?" 

"Why start now?" 

"Maybe that's it, then," Alex said, throwing his leather jacket on the couch and unbuckling his pants. Mulder lay passively on the floor, letting himself be undressed and handled. It was better that way. "I'm your death wish, Mulder." He spit on his fingers, raising Mulder's half-clad legs up over his lap, thrusting two fingers inside him, twisting them, stretching the opening with precision. He spit on his cock with the same oddly loving care. "A—" Alex paused for emphasis, drawing the word out until his cock was at the opening of Mulder's asshole, pushing vowels and consonants and his dick at the same time, "—release." 

The first thrust was brutal, but it was always that way. Somehow, it was never quite hard enough to make him regret it, to make _either_ of them regret it. He bit his lip, lying there, letting Alex fuck him, trying to think of mundane things to prevent his body's automatic response to the assault on his prostate. Someday, he'd be able to win, to stop his erection from forming, to cut off his need for sex with someone else completely, to keep his hands at his sides and not on Alex's corded forearms, to stop the words forming in his throat and calling out his need, but if that day ever came, it wasn't today. 

He felt cock and nothing but cock, and it felt good, better than he remembered, better than he deserved. He'd stopped questioning why Alex came back—he liked the sex, it was good for him, it made him feel good to fuck the man whose life he'd ruined. And that wasn't even the truth—both of them had been ruined by someone else, or something else, or some mysterious group of men pulling strings somewhere, or maybe just something called Fate that had yanked them both by the short hairs through most of their lives. Whatever it was, it drew them together like two halves of something that would never be whole—not with each other, and not with anyone else. 

That's why it was okay. 

He flexed his toes, still inside his shoes—he was still almost fully-clothed, and so was Alex. He wondered if it had been the kiss that had drawn the desire out of Alex's body, or if he'd been sitting there—for how long? hours?—waiting for him, thinking about it, his body hardening in response to his surroundings alone, knowing that eventually he'd be joined. Mulder snorted. 'Joined'. Good choice of words, that. He hadn't even known that he _wanted_ Alex again until he'd seen him, hadn't known that he was going to kiss him until he did it—except for the fact that what they were doing was what they did to each other. Want had very little to do with it. Neither did need. It was beyond them, beyond their control. 

Just another example of the random chaos of the universe. 

Alex was close; Mulder could feel it—his strokes were staccato, faster and more shallow, with the occasional long pause. Soon he'd be coming, that final push inside and then nothing that was in his control, the short jerks of his orgasm overtaking his reflexes, and pulse after pulse after pulse of cum spitting out of his cock. He still hadn't touched himself, preferring to let his own cock lie there, agonized, unworthy of attention. Alex was holding himself up, and he was holding Alex. It was the way it was meant to be. 

* * *

Alex was on top of him, stickiness and clothing and the post-coital need to be warm holding them together. He could feel lips lazily grazing his jaw, but he didn't open his eyes. He'd wait, still, as long as he had to—for Alex to get up, to go into the bathroom, maybe even long enough for him to leave. It was over. Once he'd played possum so long that he awakened on the floor, almost like this, with a blanket thrown over him and a pillow beside him and an unlocked apartment door. He'd gotten up, locked the door, changed into sweats, eaten cold Chinese food and slept on the couch—still with the feel of Alex Krycek's dried come against his body, the sticky remains of his own orgasm on his stomach. He kept it there as long as he could, always, surrounded with that smell and tangible memory of his fucking—a grasping-point of reality. And then Scully would call him or someone would dangle a carrot of truth in front of him and he'd wash the memories away, put on his FBI agent attire again and go out into the world that offered him nothing as real as a few stolen minutes with Alex Krycek. 

"What are you thinking?" 

He shook his head, eyes still closed. "Nothing." 

"I don't even know how I got here." 

"Of course not. You're not supposed to. The carrot never knows how it gets on the stick." 

"What?" 

"Nothing. You should go. If you stay much longer, someone else might find you, and turn you in." 

"Nobody ever comes here except me, Mulder. Scully doesn't even come anymore unless she thinks you're dead." 

"There's the fish." 

"Right. Credible witnesses." 

He felt the warm weight lift off of him, taking away the vacuum-layer of body heat with it, and he bit back a request. They didn't ask things of each other. He heard a door close and the shower come on, and wondered why it wasn't the same for Alex as it was for him; of course, Alex didn't have the option of staying here, staying dirty. He had to go out into the world, clean, untouched, untraceable. 

He sighed, wallowing in his own selfishness and his own self-loathing, wondering if it would be possible to just stay here forever, to just lie on this floor, half-undone, until someone came to see if he was still alive or not. Scully would come. He could hear her pounding on the door, picture her breaking in, finding him. 

No, that wasn't right. He hadn't phoned her yet to let her forgive him. He couldn't let her find him without being forgiven. He'd have to get up tomorrow and do it again. 

The bathroom door opened again. "You should invest in a bed, Mulder." 

He didn't answer. It wouldn't be right with a bed. It wouldn't fit into the rough edges of his life. 

He felt something rub against his lips, a thumb—it caressed him in a way he'd never been caressed before, and then he was kissed, lightly. 

He kissed back. 

A few minutes later, the door closed. 

The End 


End file.
